


Such Small Hands

by Brendon



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drug Addiction, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:23:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brendon/pseuds/Brendon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now you couldn't put it off as a bad dream. He was actually, truly dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such Small Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Allie for beta'ing this even though she knows absolutely nothing about homestuck.
> 
> First Homestuck fic, please don't tear me a new one for fucking shit up.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and a year ago your best friend died of a drug overdose.

It’s true that Gamzee Makara had been a known drug addict, slipping into the title after his father had abandoned he and his mother in the boy’s early teenage years. True that on more than one occasion he’d called you to come pick him up from some shithole on a bad side of town in the middle of the night, strung out on stuff you didn’t even want to know about. Which is why no one was surprised when he showed up in a ditch one day, unresponsive. 

You’d skipped school to visit him in the hospital that day. His normally-cool hands had been ice cold. Whether that was due to the fact he’d laid exposed to the harsh January weather for too long, or the fact that you could practically see him dying, you didn’t know. The entire day the only thing you could think about was what you’d do without him there, and how you’d promised him so many times that you’d help him, you’d change him. You remembered how he’d laugh at the promises, pat your head, and say how much he wished you could help. It used to make you angry, how little faith he had in you. Now you couldn’t help but agree. 

You hadn’t been able to help him. You’d missed your chance. And now he lay dying, and it could be considered halfway your fault for not doing more. You’d always heard that when someone was on their deathbed, they tended to look peaceful, or like they were just sleeping. You remember thinking what a load of bullshit that was, looking down at his body in that bed. He didn’t look like he was sleeping. He looked dead. Like someone had replaced your Gamzee with a wax model while your back was turned.

You’d stayed the whole day, until a nurse had to remind you that visiting hours were over, and that you could return the next day. You said your goodbyes, placed a chaste kiss to your friend’s forehead, and left the hospital. Looking back, you wished you’d told the nurse to make an exception. Told her how much Gamzee meant to you. And if she’d refused, stayed anyway. Not like security wouldn’t have come eventually. Even if you’d only gotten 5 extra minutes, it would’ve been worth it. Because when you returned to the hospital the next morning, you were faced with Makara’s distraught mother. You only caught half of what she said, but in that half you’d gathered that Gamzee hadn’t made it through the night. An ice cold pit settled in your stomach, the feeling spreading from your torso out to the tips of your fingers and toes. You led his weeping mother out to your car, deciding it was probably not the greatest idea to let her drive when she was so inconsolable. You promised to help her with any arrangements, and dropped her off at the apartment they had both inhabited. 

And you kept that promise. You helped her make each and every decision, down to what Gamzee would be wearing at his viewing. She’d wanted a suit and tie. You’d managed to talk her into one of his favorite stupid clown band tee shirts, and a pair of jeans. You claimed that he’d have hated spending eternity in a monkey suit. She’d grudgingly agreed. That was the easy part. The hard part was actually going through with it. Dragging yourself to your best friends viewing, being forced into standing, and talking about your Gamzee in past tense. The words had piled up painfully in your throat, coming out in short bursts of half word, half sob rambles. You mostly just repeated that he had been your best friend, how much you’d loved him, and how much you were going to miss him. You’d been numb ever since you found out he was dead, and his funeral was the first time you’d actually cried about it, because now, it was real. Now you couldn’t put it off as a bad dream. He was actually, truly, dead. 

It had taken you three weeks to gather up the strength to do anything but lay in bed and cry, but eventually you knew you had to go back to school, to finish up your senior year, despite the fact that your best friend wouldn’t be finishing with you. Upon returning, you’d been faced with an overwhelming amount of pity. People you didn’t know told you how sorry they were that he died. Cheerleaders who used to mock you and call you mean names were teary-eyed and hugging you, talking about how hard of a time you must’ve been having. You faced their pity with a steel mask, ignoring their questions and trying desperately to finish out the year as unnoticed as possible. Even in the months after, peoples kind words bounced off you, as did their criticisms. They just didn’t understand. But that didn’t stop you from getting pissed off and defensive anytime someone told you to get over it. Even your own mother had started to get irritated by how little you left your room. You’d refused to walk at graduation, settling on getting your diploma mailed to you. That was easier than sitting through the memorial everyone had planned for Gamzee. They’d wanted you to give a speech. You said you were going to be out of town. 

After graduation, you started to recover. And you felt guilty for it. You felt like you were betraying your Gamzee by getting over his death, by starting to shower again and eat normally and go out and consult other human beings. This didn’t last long, seeing as the dead boy started making regular appearances in your dreams. He would yell at you for forgetting about him, and then apologize. Apologize for all the broken promises that he could no longer keep. The promises about getting out of this stupid small town and finding an apartment somewhere far, far away. Promises that included both of you sticking together forever. And then he’d beg you not to forget about him, and you’d wake up in a sobbing mess, screaming that you wouldn’t forget about him, that you could never forget about him. It was the same thing every single night. Him stitching together broken promises, you making one of your own. It got to the point where you weren’t sleeping as much as you should’ve been, the dreams forcing you to stay awake in the fear that they’d return.

Not that it mattered, though. After several nearly sleepless days, he started invading your mind while awake, too. You’d hear his voice, like he was standing right behind you, but when you turned you were alone. When you shared this with your mother, she chalked it up to stress, guilt, and a few sleepless nights, but promised to make you an appointment with a psychologist. That didn’t last long. After your first few psych appointments, your dreams changed. Now, it was an angry Gamzee who was talking to you. Screaming that you were trying to get rid of him by seeing the doctor. And throwing things at Dream-You. You’d wake up with bruises where the various lamps, vases, and anything he could get his hands on had hit. Your therapist claimed this was a form of self-mutilation, that you’d managed to do this to yourself _in your sleep_ , and prescribed you sleeping pills. 

They worked for a few days. A few beautiful, sleep-filled days, but he found a way around them. He always found a way around everything. Gamzee seemed to just get progressively angrier. And now you could definitely see him when you were awake. It wasn’t full on, but you’d sneak glances at him from the corners of your eyes. And on many occasions you could’ve _sworn_ something wasn’t where you’d put it. You had managed to convince yourself you were just paranoid. For a little while, at least. After a week or so of the recurrence, it started to drive you slightly mad. And you did something that you’d never have done under any other circumstance. You’d broken into your parents liquor cabinet. Before this, you were always scared. Scared of being deprived of your inhibitions, scared of being caught as an underage drinker, just… Scared. There’s a reason Gamzee had always called you “Scaredy Kat”, and that would be it. But here, home alone, sitting in the middle of your room, you let yourself go. You laid there for who knows how long, a sobbing, drunk mess. But, of course, eventually you passed out. And that led to a dreamless sleep, so deep that you almost didn’t regret your actions the morning after, when you woke up and promptly vomited all over yourself and the surrounding area. 

Hey, at least you weren’t tired anymore. 

You’d repeated that night over and over again, managing to get Gamzee out of your head for a short amount of time. When your parents found out you’d broken into the cabinet, they dumped it all down the drain. You were sad to see it go, as you’d developed a sort of dependency to the poison. It helped you sleep, and in return you’d let it ravage your body the next day. It seemed fair to you. And if you couldn’t get it from your parents- well, there were always other ways to get things done. You managed to track down one of Gamzee’s old friends, who made fake I.Ds for teenagers in your situation. It cost you an arm and a leg (and some other body parts you’d rather not think about), but the license looked as real as your parents’. 

You began sneaking out, going to the small bars surrounding your town. None of them seemed to be aware the I.D was fake, or else they just didn’t care. Either way was fine for you. That didn’t last forever. Your parents caught you sneaking in one night, and actually began locking you into your room after 9 PM. You’d heard them talking through the door one night. Apparently they thought you’d turn out like “that Makara kid”. Of course, after a few days of having nothing to dull your mind, Gamzee showed back up. Taunting you for getting caught, schooling you on other things you should’ve done to avoid it. Then his face softened, and he sat next to you. 

“I sure am glad you can see me again, though,” he said. “I missed it.” 

“You’re not actually Gamzee,” you replied. “You’re a figment of my imagination brought on by stress and guilt.” 

“Nah,” he shook his head. “What’s there to be guilty for, brother? You ain’t don’t nothing bad to me ever.” 

“I could’ve helped you more. I could’ve been with you that night-“ 

“Come on, Karkat. It’s not like I asked you to pick me up from somewhere and you just left me. You didn’t know I’d even been out of my place.” 

“Yes I did.” 

“How?” 

“You’re never at your house.” You heard him sigh, and felt an arm sling over your shoulder. 

“That’s the thing, Kar. There’s never any absolutes. That sounds kinda backwards I guess, saying never- but you get what I mean. You couldn’t have known that I was goin’ anywhere that night. Couldn’t have. I didn’t tell you, or my mom, no one. It’s not like I’d expected you to just show up on coincidence, and save my ass. I just kind of accepted it.” There was a pause. “I think it’s time for you to accept it, too. Got it?” 

A bony chin rested on your head, and you bit back tears. This all felt so profoundly _real_. And you wanted it to be. You’d wanted Gamzee to be over, playing video games, or just goofing off. You didn’t want to be talking to a fake Gamzee that your subconscious had conjured up in an attempt to make you happier. 

“Yeah,” you rasped. “I get it.” 

His arm and chin both disappeared, and when you looked back up at him, the rest was gone too. You slept just fine that night, even though you weren’t piss drunk. 

Things were a little…off, after that. Your parents didn’t look at you the same. Gamzee hadn’t shown back up since that night. You thought you’d be relieved, but in all actuality, you were distraught at his sudden disappearance. You conveyed this to your therapist, who just nodded their head and scribbled something down. After one painfully long session with the doctor, you found yourself laying on your bed back at home, muttering. 

“Please. Please come back. I need you. Please. I don’t care if you’re a figment of my imagination, I want you here. Now.” 

“Talking to me?” You heard his voice from across the room, immediately opening your eyes and looking towards the sound. 

“Kind of.” 

“You know, you can’t just conjure me out of nowhere like that. What if I had been takin’ a shower?” 

“I-“ 

“Whatever, forget it. What did you want?” 

“I wanted you here.” 

“And why exactly is that? Before all you wanted was for me to go away. An interesting change, if you’d asked me.” “I didn’t - I just - I miss you. I wish you were still here. As Gamzee. Not weird ghost boy.” 

“Thought you believed I was a figment of your imagination?” 

“I changed my mind.” 

“…Good.” 

“What’s it like?” 

“What’s what like?” 

“Being dead.” 

“It’s… quiet. And not really any different from the real world. I mean - everyone’s got someplace to live and nothing ever runs out - not that we have to eat or anything, but it’s still nice to slam some Faygo every once in a while. Not anything like the shiny white heaven people preach about. But I found that ducking out and chilling here with you mouth breathers is more fun.” 

“Oh.” 

“You know, you could always go there with me. We talked about getting an apartment together, far away from this stupid town. Remember?” 

“Yeah, I remember, but h - ” You saw him reach for the container of sleeping pills you’d just had refilled, popping the cap off. “No.” 

“Why not?” He stepped a little closer with each word. “Don’t you wanna help me keep my promises?” 

“Of course, but - I don’t want to die.” 

“That’s too bad, Karkat.” He was standing over you now, his eyes boring into yours.

“What are you-” Before the sentence had fully left your mouth, his hand was placed over it. 

He dumped the pills down your throat, through gaps between his thin fingers. Tears streamed down your face, dripping down his wrist, as you struggled against him. After he’d finished shoveling all the sleeping pills into your mouth, he held you against him, one arm in a vice-like grip around your arms and waist, the other still covering your mouth. 

“Shh, don’t cry, Karkat. It’ll be okay. I promise…” 

Your mind started going foggy, your vision doing the same, until everything was a thick blanket of black. 

You were found later that day, an empty orange pill bottle clutched in your hand.


End file.
